Chapter Text
“Please…just stay with us Simon…”
The air around him had a bittersweet scent to it, one that forcibly dug up memories that he had so masterfully buried a long time ago. Simon’s eyes shot open, instincts taking over. He readied himself to fight off some type of rabid animal that was typically waiting for him, but when none popped out he forced his body to try and relax. The confusion that washed over him from his reaction quickly subsided when he realized where he was. He was at home.
“What the absolute fuck is going on?” The words came out in a low whisper, confusion taking its place in his brain for the second time, this time not going away. Looking around the room, he took in the worn-out leather couch that was a hand-me-down from his uncle on his mom’s side. God that couch witnessed a lot of shit over the years, the beatings, the crying, the hiding from dad, but also the cozy nights when his father was out of the house. On nights like those, him and his mom, with some of the money that she would hide from his father, would take a trip to their local Blockbuster and she would rent any movie Simon wanted to watch. It was a tradition that young Simon never grew out of, even in his teenage years. The gesture and quality time with his mom meant the world to him. This little piece of normalcy felt like the life jacket he needed to prevent him from drowning in his sea of pain and trauma. The rest of the room consisted of a tube television that sat on a wooden table, a coffee table that had been broken and fixed about 20 times, and a small dining table located behind the couch that housed 4 chairs, non of them matching each other or the table. There were 4 picture frames littered around the various nicotine-stained walls in the room which held pictures of Simon and Tommy when they were much younger. The glass in each frame had at least 1 crack in it. The door to the kitchen was directly behind where Simon was sitting while the stairs heading up to the second floor were directly to his left.
The pictures on the walls were placed at awkward heights around the house. One could infer that the pictures were used to hide something, and they would be correct. All 4 frames hid the evidence of his father’s violence. If you were to simply move the picture frame slightly, you would be met with a fist size hole that adorned the wall, a permanent reminder of the hell this house was forced to witness over the years. When they ran out of picture frames, his father just made sure to keep his physical attacks on the house to the second level where no visitors would dare go.
This house was a home to Simon, but his definition of home was wildly different from his peers. The word home for other people always came with a sense of love, warmth, and good memories, where one goes to feel safe and hide from the horrors of the world. However, to Simon, his home was where horror was manufactured in droves. The word home always had an air of claustrophobia to it, that’s what home meant to Simon. Everything was always a little too disorganized. The walls always felt like they were creeping ever so slowly toward you until you were gasping for air. On particularly bad nights when the only sound filling his ears were the wails of his brutalized mother, he would go to his dresser and pull out a tape measure he had stolen from a convenience store down the street. He would go from corner to corner in his room, measuring its length in a tireless effort to convince himself that his room wasn’t going to try and swallow him whole. Nights like those always left him sleep-deprived the next day. His teachers would catch him nodding off in class in the middle of their lesson, and, without stopping to question why he was falling asleep in class, his teachers would call his parents to report his behaviour. If he was lucky, his mother would pick up the phone. However, Simon has very rarely been lucky, and as a result, his father would pick up the phone, and later that night Simon would go to bed with fresh injuries. The reason for these beating were never about him falling asleep in class and always about the teacher bothering his father in the middle of the day. Over time, Simon got better and better at powering through his exhaustion to a point where he could stay awake with 0 hours of sleep for days on end. That particular skill has worked wonders for him during his military career, but like so many of his other skills, it was born out of trauma and survival.
From behind him, Simon heard gentle but precise footsteps, as if they have had years of experience avoiding the floorboards that would elicit a particularly vocal squeak. He turned and watched as the kitchen door slowly opened, revealing a frail woman who looked like she was nearing her 50s but was truthfully only in her 30s. Her hair was a deep shade of brown that fell into beautiful waves when left down but was currently up in a ponytail. Her eyes were so very tired, not too dissimilar to Simon’s own eyes, their only difference being that her eyes weren’t hardened, there was still a warmth behind hers whereas Simon had lost that many years previous. When he had lost it, Simon couldn’t recall, he’s been through so much, but so has his mom. How had she managed to experience all that she has and still be so warm? Ghost has often been told that his strength, not only physical but mental, is one of his biggest assets. His peers perceived him as having an unwaning strength because of how he manages stressful situations and is able to ‘quickly’ move on when someone dies. Simon thinks their perception of strength is incredibly flawed. To Simon, what makes someone strong is their ability to look at horrific trauma in the eye and not let it change who you are on the inside. By Simon’s definition, his mother was the strongest person to ever grace this planet, and Simon himself was the weakest piece of shit to have the misfortune of continuously taking in oxygen.
Simon’s breath hitched in his throat as his eyes followed her every movement. God, it had been so long since he'd seen his mom. The good memories he had of her had started to fade with time, being replaced with new, more traumatic memories of death and battlefields. With the fading memories came a stomach-churning guilt that had started haunting him, he was starting to forget what she looked like. Nowhere on his person did he keep any pictures of her or his family, that would be too risky. If he were to be captured by an enemy, they could find the picture on him and discover who he was, what his real name was. His anonymity was key to who he was now, it kept him as sane as he needed to be, helped him keep Simon dead. All that didn’t matter now, however, his mom was right here, with him, and he could take all the time in the world to relearn her face. Not taking his eyes off her in fear that if he did she would disappear, Simon got up off the floor from where he was sitting and, with a fervour that would incapacitate even the strongest of soldiers, he hugged his mom, tears starting to well up in his eyes. He was so determined to get to his mother, he barely even noticed the thrumming pain that was emanating from his abdomen.
A quaint laugh escaped his mom’s lips and made its home in Simon’s soul. Such a thing should be impossible, Simon no longer had a soul, Simon was supposed to be dead. But somehow, in this space between life and death, the dead were allowed to roam free and feel every emotion under the sun. This was the only place Simon is allowed to feel.
“Hi honey.” She muttered softly. Simon felt her hand run up and down his back, forcing another wave of tears to breach the surface and started running down his cheek. It’s only now he realizes he's not wearing his mask, and for the first time in a very long time, he doesn’t care.
“Hi mama.” His voice shutters as he fights a losing battle against his tear ducts. It was true that he didn’t care that his face was exposed, but solely running on instinct at this point he buried his face in his mother’s shoulder.
Simon has always been the type of person to hide his emotions, it was just another survival technique he learned at the School of Traumatized Boys so perfectly located in his own home. From a very young age, showing emotion was always paired with mind-numbing pain, the 2 were married and Simon was invited to the ceremony, in fact, he was the ring bearer. He wasn’t incapable of feeling emotions, they were still very much there to the chagrin of Simon, however, they didn’t encompass his body like they used to. Simon’s misfortune when he was younger was that he felt emotion too strongly for his father's liking, and his father set out to fix that. His solution? Beat him until there was barely any emotion left or force him to feel the wrong emotions at the worst of times. Memories of one particular night, one of the many times Simon was forced to join his father at a Bone Lickers concert, him and his father came across some poor woman who had overdosed. Her eyes mirrored his own, brown, young, lifeless. Simon was shocked at how pale she was. If he didn’t know any better, he could have mistaken her as some type of misplaced and forgotten mannequin, left there to scare and scar any poor soul who passed by. Simon never was very lucky. He could do nothing as he felt his father’s left-hand wrap around his jaw to keep his head in place, preventing little Simon from turning away. The echoing of his father’s laughter enveloped him, it being mixed in with the pokes and prods from his father to push Simon himself to start laughing. It was one of the worst things his father made him do and the guilt of it still follows him, it being present in the stares he constantly feels are on him, even if there are no pairs of eyes in his close proximity. All those eyes, every single one, all of them had to know or they wouldn’t be looking at him like that.
He was pulled out of his spiraling thoughts by his mother's concerned words.
“Now honey, what are you doing here? You need to go back. You know this.” She speaks with a steady and calming tone that Simon has so desperately missed. He felt his body gain another 20 lbs of weight on his shoulders.
Simon stilled momentarily, taking in her words. He flipped them around, turned them upside-down, inverted them, translated them into Spanish, and then back into English, and he still couldn’t pinpoint what she was talking about, at least that's what he wanted to believe in the moment. It would make everything so much easier.
“What are you going on about?” It was a stupid question to ask, one he already partially knew the answer to, but acknowledging it meant that he still had time to make it back. He wanted to run out his mortal clock, he wanted to watch the sand slip through the hourglass and laugh at its attempt to scare him into living. If he was actually dead, he certainly wouldn’t be here, in his mother’s arms. Simon never really put much thought into the idea of God or heaven and hell. Whether it was the child abuse or war, Simon understood that if God did exist, he didn’t give 2 fucks about what happened to the human race. Just like Fate, God was a cruel and unjust higher power that took great joy in seeing his creations suffer. Was there really a being called Satan or was it just God in a skull mask? Either way, his mother's arms wrapped around him felt too much like heaven for a man whose hands were drenched in so much blood that the Devil himself would be envious.
“C’mon Simon, don’t treat your dear mother as if she was an idiot. You’re dying, but you’re not dead yet. I know it hurts but you need to go back. You still have so much life ahead of you. You need to live it, if not for yourself then for me!” The desperation in her voice was palpable.
“Mama, no…no I don’t need to go back. The only place I need to be is right here, with you.” He tries desperately to hide the shaking of his voice, but he knows his mothers can see right through it, she’s always been able to read Simon like a book. Recently, Simon had met someone else just like that, but he didn’t want to dwell on that idea, it didn’t matter anymore, at least that’s what he told himself.
He continued. “I am so tired of feeling out of place whenever I’m not in the middle of a warzone. I'm tired of the traumatic memories, the nightmares, the guilt! I'm tired of the endless death! I’m a monster mama, a downright ghoul. The best thing that could happen to me is that I eat a bullet on the battlefield, which is what happened. This is me finally resting, please don’t make me go back!”
The sigh that came from his mother was bone-deep. Gently, she pulled back from the hug but only far enough so that she could look into Simon’s eyes. There was no sense of pity detectable on her face, only a soul-crushing sadness that any mother would have when they see just how broken their beloved child is.
Slowly, as to not startle him, she placed both her hands on either side of Simon’s face. Her thumb moved along his cheek to wipe away the tears that fought their own battle to escape his eyes. “Oh honey, I know you’re tired. You’ve seen and experienced enough pain to last you 100 lifetimes and you’re not even 40. You deserve to rest. But this, death, isn’t the rest that you need. There are people out there that need you Simon, that care about you. I know you don’t see it, you just see yourself as a soldier and nothing else, but you are so much more than that, I’m not the only one that sees that. Price, Gaz, Soap, don’t leave them behind. Soap...Johnny has taken a liking to you. He sees that you're more than just a soldier. I have to commend him...you've built up walls so thick and tall Simon, but he is a determined man. Don't let his efforts go to waste by fading away now." In the now quiet of the room, where his mother's words fought his self-hatred with knives and bullets, a crack that had long ago formed in the far-most right wall, grew, creating a far too beautiful fractal design.
She continued, "When your time comes I’ll be right here, waiting to welcome you, but that time is not right now.”
The last time his mother talked to him like this, she was trying to convince him not to join the military. Her tone was so determined while it slowly drowned in emotion. If only he had listened to her back then maybe she would still be alive. Maybe he would have kicked his father out of the house before it got as bad as it did. Maybe his nephew’s age would have reached double digits. Maybe Christmas each year wouldn’t leave him alone in a room with a gun in his mouth, willing his hand to give him the only present he craved so deeply.
Simon would never know the answers to that quandary, but what he did know was that he was losing the battle in this very moment. It was him vs. his mother, and his mother held all the firepower. Ghost wasn’t known to be someone to back down even in an unwinnable fight, he climbed the ranks to Lieutenant because of his ability to think fast on his feet, but he wasn’t Ghost, not right now, right now he was Simon Riley.
“Mama…please…I can’t…”
“Yes, you can, I know you can because you are my brave little boy. I love you, I love you so so much Simon, but it is time for you to go. I will always be with you!” There was an urgency in her voice now that caught Simon off guard. The last time Simon took in the room that surrounded him and his mother, it looked like how it did in his childhood, but now when he looks around the room to assess why his mother sounded on edge…were those Christmas decorations always there? Had he missed them the first time he scanned the room for any venomous threats?
“Simon? What are you doing here? I thought you were out with some of your army buddies. When did you get home?”
No no no no no, please fuck no…no, this can’t be happening, this can’t be tonight…I lived this once I can’t live through it again! Make it stop! MAKE IT BLOODY STOP!
Simon turned to face the direction of where the familiar voice came from and was met with his brother Tommy and his sister-in-law Beth watching him expectedly. Off in the corner of the room, there was a Christmas tree covered head to toe in lights and tacky ornaments. He remembered helping his mother and brother decorate that tree a few weeks before he watched his life get engulfed in flames. He was sitting at the dining table, clinging to a fresh cup of tea, allowing the steam to envelop and fog up the memories of that night's attempt at sleep and subsequent nightmares and panic attack, when his mother walked in. As she so often does, she read him like a book before he was able to even say a word. She put forward that Simon could help her and his brother find and decorate a tree for the upcoming holiday, and when he declined, she said that she didn’t take no for an answer. It took them hours to find and finish decorating that tree, but by the end of it, Simon felt the best he had in a very long time. His mother always did know what was best for him…maybe that was still true.
He opened his mouth to try and respond to Tommy, desperately wanting to apologize for everything that was about to happen when the sound of someone pounding at their front door startled them all.
“Jehovah’s Witness’ really trying a new, more forceful tactic are they?” Tommy scoffed as he cautiously made his way to the door.
“Don’t answer that!” Simon lunged towards his brother, taking a hold of his shoulder and keeping him rooted in place.
“Damn Simon, why are you so scared? You’re past catching up to you or something?”
“Tommy, I…” Yet another sentence not finished by Simon when a bullet exploded its way through Tommy’s head.
The beginning whisps of shock started to cloud Simon’s vision when he felt a warm hand on his shoulder, pulling him out of the haze he so wished he could curl up and die in. “You need to go! Now! Out the back Simon! I love you! Live!” There was no objecting anymore, his mother was pushing him towards their back door as he heard the familiar sounds of bullets ripping through bodies and drywall. He reached the back door just as the smell of smoke made itself known. Every piece of him wanted to stay and die with his family, but he couldn’t disappoint his mom, not again, not after everything she’d done for him.
He turned back one last time, wanting to catch 1 last glimpse of his mom for the sole purpose of etching it into his memory. He won’t forget her face again, not this time. “I love you too Mama, and I’m sorry, for everything.”
“Oh, my lovely Simon, let go of all that guilt you hold so deeply in your heart. None of this was your fault. No need to apologize. I know the guilt won’t just magically go away, but know that I do not blame you, no one does. The only one that blames you is you.” Her words exude an aching softness that makes Simon want to retreat within himself. He doesn’t deserve it. He deserves to be hated, he deserves to be blamed, but he knew his mother wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. He twists the door handle and feels the door give. Cold night air rushes into the kitchen and mingles with the heat that was emanating from the living room.
“See you soon mama.” Simon smiles.
“Not too soon honey.”
Simon pushes past the door and into the clear, brisk night. From behind him, he hears a gunshot, a groan of pain, and 2 whispered words.
“Give Johnny…”
The sky was littered with stars. There were no secrets for them to hold this night, tonight they lit the path so that a scared little boy could find his way back home.